


I'm Sorry, I (Can't) Love You

by KarasuAke



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-15 19:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13620312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarasuAke/pseuds/KarasuAke
Summary: Had you on my mindAnd it's not the first time we've gone through thisWanting you more and moreI can't help but think of what we could beBaby if I could tell you, if I could tell youHow much I care, I'm in despairAre you still there?





	1. Beloved

_ Beloved _ . 

 

That word used to be easier to say, easier to put in context to  _ him _ . At 3:00 AM, he watches that boy he claims as his beloved. There’s dark hair disheveled over half his face, eyes closed with a relaxed expression. He looks so peaceful, so unaware of the heavy feeling weighing in Ouma’s chest. It causes his fingers to shake, quivering fingers reaching out for the other’s thinner ones. His actions were already hesitant, but he stops fully when he hears a soft breath escape the boy. He curls his fingers back up into fists against his chest to stop the shaking, but it only rises to his shoulders.

 

He contemplates the idea of getting out bed, getting up to get a drink. His brain needed to take a mental step back, distance himself from the situation that was right in front of his face. Though, he knows if he leaves the other will stir. Even if he made up some poor lie like going to the bathroom, it probably wasn’t worth risking the idea of his boy waking up.

 

It was an out, though, even if he’d have to keep it brief. He slowly peels himself from the blankets, easing his way out of bed. It’s a near silent motion from him. His bare feet flatten out to the carpeted floor, keeping every step feather light as he slips around the bed, eyes not breaking with the unmoving body in bed when he goes for the nearest door. That was, until a voice breaks the crippling silence.

 

“K- Ko?” His voice is so soft, so gentle and warm where it feels like it’s beckoning Ouma back to bed without really having to say the words. When Ouma looks at him, there’s no movement, he did sound barely awake, anyways.

 

Ouma has to force the words out of his mouth, “Just using the bathroom real quick, Love,” he fakes the tone of sounding far more okay than he feels, content, but sleepy sounding. He was exhausted enough to tired part wasn’t hard to lie about, but he has to bite back the shake in his voice.

 

It must have been convincing enough, or maybe the other was just too tired, as he heard a small noise of acknowledgement that felt like his single to continue. So he does, still keeping his movements light against the thick carpet. He almost has to shiver when his toes meet the cold tile of the bathroom floor.

 

He moves carefully, turning the knob of the door when closing it so it doesn’t make much of a sound. It’s only once the door is fully closed does he palm around for the light to the side of the doorframe. The lights flicker on instantly, and Ouma has to bring a balled hand to his eyes for them to adjust to the sudden stark brightness. It almost makes him woozy, stumbling his way over to the sink.

 

Shaking fingers relax from their tensed position, twitching out to meet the sink’s handle, turning the cold on full blast. Ouma looks over at the door with weak eyes, making a silent prayer that it wasn’t loud enough to wake the boy in the other room. He turns the water down in the slightest from that fear, before dipping both hands under the running water. It cools them instantly, almost too cold, and suddenly his hands are shaking for a different reason.

 

He splashes the cold water onto his face, bringing trembling fingers to rest on his cheeks. He hadn’t realized just how hot his face had been until that moment, how strange it felt to bring the freezing water to heated cheeks for it to dry awkwardly. He hadn’t realized just how ready he was to cry.

 

The sob escapes him before any tears do, hands moving from his face to the edges of the sink to grip tightly. The water’s still running, the only thing blocking out the pathetic noises he knew he was making. He can barely face himself in the mirror, but he has to, when he feels the first few white hot tears prickle up in his eyes. Honest tears that felt so rare, so private that he can’t remember the last time he cried in front of anyone else. Not even  _ him _ . It feels wrong when he thinks about it like that, and the tears finally spill over.

 

He brings water up to his face again, quickly, knowing his knees are shaking without the support of the sink. “Get your shit together, Ouma,” he looks himself dead on in the mirror, a fake, crooked grin curling onto his face at his pathetic display. It doesn’t later long before it breaks fully, Ouma letting his head hang so he doesn’t have to look at himself. One hand goes back to the sink while the free forearm rakes against his eyes.

 

Much longer, and he knew everything would seem suspicious, he wasn’t even sure if his love had fallen back asleep. He could get through this, lie his way through this if he had to. He focuses on evening out his breaths, in and out once over, twice over, thrice over. He feels the shaking stop as much as he knew it would for the time being, face still hot, but it’s absent of the thin tear lines. The pain settles in his gut, and he moves stiffly to turn off the sink.

 

It’s completely silent again. He looks up to the mirror again. He still looks awful, he knew he would, eyes puffy and most of his face peppered with various shades of red. Yet, he smiles. He smiles at the degrading appearance in the mirror. He knows it’s fake, and the small release he felt from crying was only something so temporary. When he went back out there, he’d have to face it again. The smile only leaves once he turns his face, once he doesn’t have to look at himself anymore.

 

While he didn’t want to be in any rush, he knows he’d been in there long enough. He wobbles back over to the door. He takes a hold of the doorknob while turning off the light, sure to only start opening the door once he knew the light wouldn’t stir his companion. 

 

When he’s back into the bedroom, he’s completely still for the first moment. He observes the other with his stinging eyes, unmoving and making a soft noise akin to snoring. It was cute, and gives Ouma the reassurance he needs knowing that the other is actually asleep. His movements are as sluggish as they were the trip there, careful as though a false move could suddenly sent alarm bells blaring. 

 

When he makes it to the other side of the bed, he smooths himself on to the sheets with little noise. He slips himself under the blankets, settling in only to be met with that face again. Ouma couldn’t stop himself from taking it all in, burning eyes observing smooth skin. The way the boy’s eyebrows were slightly raised in content, lips agap with the soft sound escaping from between them. His thin fingers were curled, hands on top of each other as they were close to his chest, that was steadily rising and falling in his sleep. The whole sight is so intoxicating to Ouma, there’s a part of him that never wants to stop this moment. He wants his brain to record it, play it back again and again. And the way the light from the window, the stars, played against the other’s cheeks. There was nothing that wasn’t perfect about him, so Ouma can’t quite understand why there’s a off feeling pang in his heart. He doesn’t understand why  _ beloved _ wasn’t a word to describe him when he knew that’s what he was, everything in front of him was so  _ beloved _ .

 

He fears getting sucked into the image in front of him, getting sucked into  _ his _ presence. So he turns over with a heavy heart. He tucks his hands under his pillow when he feels his emotions whirring. Violet eyes make their way to the window as if it could give him any of the answers he’s looking for, or tell him what he’s supposed to feel.

 

It must have been hours watching out of that window, only catching glimpses of the outside through the blinds. It’s when he sees only the faintest shimmer of sunrise does he hear an alarm go out. He feels his entire body freeze, knowing it’s not his, remembering that the other was up early on these days to help his uncle with detective work. Ouma eyes are wide feeling the movement on the other side of the bed. He closes his eyes quickly, trying to calm himself. 

 

He knows fake sleeping probably wasn’t the answer, but he didn’t have to will to try to talk in the moment, to try anything. He wished he could just fall off the face of the planet, disappear, but keeping himself relaxed with eyes closed was the only answer he had right now. He leaves his mouth slightly open, breathing softly when he hears the alarm shut off with haste. The boy was always so considerate, Ouma knew he hadn’t wanted to wake him up. Ouma keeps himself like that, eyes closed, observing through his other senses.

 

The weight on the other side of the bed doesn’t leave immediately. Instead, Ouma can feel a hand rub down his side and a small, content sigh as if the other was saying “Good morning,” with serene actions. Ouma can’t help but feel his fingers curl in reaction to the touch. The hand moves away and Ouma can feel him leave. The bed feels like a hole was put through it when there’s no longer a presence beside him, as if the bed was far bigger than it actually was,

 

Ouma stays in rest the whole time. He listens to the drawers open and close, listens the door close, to the shower running, to the door opening. He’s adamant about putting the pieces together to keep in mind where his beloved is. It’s what comes after it all that Ouma doesn’t expect. He can feel the presence move, only really being able to map out where he’s standing when he feels it right beside him.

 

On the bedside, the other leans down, a hand moving to move Ouma’s bangs and give him a kiss on the forehead as to say goodbye. Ouma swore he held his breath, but he suppresses any real reaction until he feels the other move away, safest when he hears the door out of the room open and close. He gives it a few minutes, until he’s sure that the other’s gone.

 

He sits up slowly in the bed, eyes locking with the door the other left with. He stares at it hard, not breaking the gaze when he moves his hand up to touch his forehead. His fingers glaze over the place that felt like it was burning, the exact place the kiss was left. Everywhere he was touched feels like it’s on fire, and he has to wonder if this is what happened every morning that he was sound asleep, if this was just his first time truly experiencing it all. It was sweet, so sweet of him. It left everything feeling warm, he should be happy, he knows he should feel overjoyed.

 

Then his hand moves from his forehead to his chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt. He knows how he should feel. It’s why he couldn’t begin to understand the sinking feeling that washed away any warmth sitting on his skin.

 

He lets himself fall back against the bed, pulling all the blankets with him to nearly smother himself. Exhausted wouldn’t begin to describe how drained he felt. The whiplash from the lovely warmth to the cold sinking feeling left him feeling numb. The storm brewing in his brain got swept up into it, into the haze that enveloped his entire body. He pulls the heavy blankets closer to his face with the last of his strength.

 

He knows he should say something.


	2. Enough

Light is fully pouring into the room when Ouma’s eyes begin to flicker open. He blinks a few times over until he’s able to look out the blinds. It must have been daytime already, the sun higher in the sky than what would be for morning. He squints at the unwelcome light, hand haphazardly meeting the nightstand to find his phone. With phone in hand, he rolls over to his other side to turn his back to the window.

 

He lazily cups the phone in his hands. When he turns his phone on, he sees the notification. _Message from Shu-chan_. He swipes it aside on accident, not realizing it caused the tremble in his fingers to return. There he’s met with his lock screen. Two faces smile at him. His fingers clench onto his phone a little tighter, suddenly painfully aware of the heavy feeling in his chest.

 

It was one of the most honest smiles he thinks he ever saw from Saihara. The perfect moment captured in a simple picture. He takes in how full Saihara’s smile was, how beautiful he looked when he was happy. His cheeks were slightly lifted, flushed from some dumb comment Ouma remembers making about how gorgeous he was. His eyes were closed, arm slung around Ouma. Even as only a collection of lights on the screen, Ouma could practically feel just how much Saihara had been radiating.

 

 _Beloved_.

 

The name comes to mind again, but his mind can’t wander when his screen finally times out, going black. He makes a small, half-hearted noise of annoyance when turning on his screen again. This time he doesn’t linger. He swipes up for the password prompt, connecting the dots into a diamond shaped pattern crossed down the middle vertically.

 

There’s another picture of Saihara, and Ouma’s brows knit in a guilt that he doesn’t understand. He wants to understand. In a way, he thinks he already does, but then there’s the fact he’d have to admit it.

 

He opens the messenger, fighting the heavy feeling in his heart.

 

_Good morning, Kokichi. Remember to lock up when you leave. 8:09AM_

 

It’s such a simple thing, to be told good morning. Ouma knows it doesn’t matter all that much, that’s just what couples did, tell each other good morning and goodnight. Yet, it makes him feel special in a way. He knows Saihara is busy from the moment he’s out the door, working away at whatever case there was for the week. Despite that, he takes the time out of his day to tell Ouma good morning. Every morning, he does.

 

Ouma has to think over his reply twice over before he begins typing, thumbs pecking away at the screen. _Good morning. Okay, got it._ That seemed too melancholy, and he knows it. Tries again, _Good morning~!_ ♡ _Alright, I will~ (*•̀ᴗ•́*)و ̑̑ ._ He dresses up the message while he feels a frown tug onto his face, dark eyes staring at the bright emoticon. It’s only once he sends the message does his brain really register how late it is.

 

_3:32PM_

 

Saihara would be back soon. There’s guilt in leaving, but there’s more guilt in facing Saihara with these feelings. It’s enough to throw him out of bed, cursing as the warmth leaves him. He’s already throwing off his clothes, digging through the dresser to find some of his own. While he didn’t live with Saihara, they were close enough that there were a few changes of clothes left there for him. Ouma tries to be considerate in the least, taking his night clothes and folding them to set them on top of the dresser. He feels his phone chime where he had left it on the bed.

 

He looks over at it, blinking, and when he scoops it up he contemplates not opening the screen. He already knows what it was, who it was from. For the moment, he does ignore it, shoving the phone deep into his pocket. Instead, he grabs the last piece of clothing he had took out. The checkered scarf was starting to get too warm for the temperatures swiftly shifting into summer conditions. He ties it back around his neck anyways. There was something comforting from it.

 

It’s once he’s out the bedroom door does he finally cave. He pulls his phone out, nearly walking into the nearest wall when connecting the dots of his password to immediately open the message from _Shu-chan_.

 

_You woke up awfully late. Do you want to stay for dinner? 3:40PM_

 

Ouma finds himself stopped at the front door. His forehead slowly falls forward until it’s pressed against the exit. He has the phone in his hands, staring down at the words. He should accept, he knows he should. His fingers twitch out to type _Okay_ to allow himself that much, to give himself that time with his beloved. Maybe the more he was around Saihara, the more he could place his finger on why everything felt so wrong lately. Though, he didn’t have any answers, didn’t need to drag Saihara into this void that was swallowing him more day by day. This was something he’d have to figure out alone. He backspaces on his first attempt of a reply.

 

 _I’m sorry_. He types the two simple words out, the painfully true feelings of guilt finding their way to his fingers. He backspaces on his second attempt of a reply. It’s the third time attempt that he finally lies.

 

_I’m already late to meet up with DICE. Trouble isn’t going to cause itself, you know~  “ψ(｀∇ ´)ψ 3:50PM_

 

There was no DICE meeting. He knows that. The constant ache in his chest, all his energy going to fighting away exhaustion kept him from causing the real mischief he considered fun. Then again, it didn’t feel fun when he was like this. Saihara didn’t need to know that. There’s another stab into Ouma’s chest when he lies, knowing he had made a vow with Saihara to be more honest since they started dating. It was if a small needle was slowly being plunged into his heart. He could place this feeling, in the least, _regret_.

 

It’s too late. He’s already committed to the lie, and he thinks it’s for the best. He’s out the door of Saihara’s apartment without a second thought.

 

He flinches away at the harsh wind of the outside that sweeps his hair to the one direction. It dissipates then, and Ouma starts to move towards the sidewalk. He looks both ways, contemplating which way was safer. He heads in the opposite direction of where he knew Saihara would be coming from despite the fact that it was a longer jog to his own apartment.

 

During the walk home he feels his phone go off in his pocket. His fingers tighten around it, fighting the urge to check it right away. He’d only cause himself pain. He doesn’t want to think that the message could get him to turn around and walk back.

 

Then he’s at the front door of his own apartment. He fiddles with singular key he had on him, remembering how Saihara told him it was a miracle he never lost the key with it not being connected to anything else. The memory’s gone when he’s into his own living space.

 

The apartment feels so empty despite being filled wall to wall with knick knacks and things he found interesting, other items strone about that he wanted to use with DICE. It felt lonely in a way that Saihara’s apartment didn’t. There, he could still feel the presence of Saihara when he was gone. There was always that knowing feeling that soon Saihara would be back and he wouldn’t be in a empty room with empty items that really held no value in the long run. There were those few things that really mattered, a set up on the corner of his desk that was specifically for gifts that Saihara had given him.

 

He eyes those items, sighing as if it could relieve the pressure on his chest. He turns his gaze away when stumbling over and falling back onto his bed. It’s then he decides to check his phone, another notification from Saihara as he expected.

 

_Don’t cause too much trouble now. 4:01PM_

 

It’s almost playful, the nature of it makes Ouma’s heart twist. He stares at the words until his screen times out, wondering if he should reply. This time, he doesn’t bother trying to find the right respond. When his phone times out he simply lets it fall against a chest. It was a reply to a lie, Ouma knowing if he kept going he might have to lie more. It’s not the first time he’d left Saihara without much of a response either. He seemed okay with it, and Ouma almost hated that.

 

There were no grand plans for today. Not that any that Ouma felt the drive to carry out, anyways. He’s left staring at his clean, white ceiling while his fingers tense and then relax around his phone as if expecting another message without having to reply. He knows it’s not that easy, but he doesn’t want to talk so much as he wants to be talked to. It was a rare feeling, he had to wonder what had got into him.

 

Then there’s a knock on the door. Everything stops when his heart is suddenly in his throat. His mind jumps instantly to the idea that it’s Saihara despite how illogical the idea was. He can’t imagine being caught in the lie, having to remind his brain thrice over that it was impossible.

 

“Who is it?” He yells over to the door that wasn’t too far from his bed. These walls were practically made of cardboard, he knew the neighbors could probably hear him too.

 

“I don’t think you get many visitors,” the voice on the other side of the door quips.

 

Ouma lets out a relieved sigh at the familiarity. The familiarity was different from what Saihara offered, but it was just as welcome. He doesn’t respond again, already up to grab the door for the other. When he opens the door back he’s greeted with the boy’s signature smile and stylized green hair.

 

“What’s up, Amami-chan?” He puts on a far more energetic tone than how he actually feels, stepping aside to let the other in.

 

Amami enters, looking around at the mess that never ceased to marvel him. “I heard you get home, so I figured I’d come over.” Ouma seems to forget sometimes that with their paper thin walls Amami, as his neighbor, can tell the exact times he’s home unless he’s careful with closing the door. “Thought you’d still be with Saihara.”

 

Ouma can’t stop his expression from darkening in the slightest from that. He knows Amami catches it when he speaks up, “Alright, looks like you don’t want to talk about that,” brushes it off, but something tells Ouma he isn’t completely safe from talking about it, “Have you eaten yet?”

 

Then he’s reminded of the dinner offer from Saihara. Ouma pushes the thought away when answering, “No, but I was about to.” It wasn’t a complete lie. He hadn’t ate, but he hardly felt like cooking something, and if it was left to him he’d probably only have a bottle of Panta for dinner.

 

A small huff leaves Amami, “Then it looks like I’m cooking for you,” Ouma doesn’t have the time to protest, he never did once Amami offered to cook for him, “Go sit at the table.” He’s already off to the kitchen. Ouma was used to this routine when Amami came home, and finds his way over to the short table, sitting on one of the two cushions that sat on either side.

 

He waits patiently, sitting his elbows on the table, and his chin on his palms. His mind drifts when he hears the sound of a windchime. A windchime... He turns his head to see the beautifully crafted piece of glass hanging outside of his window. He doesn’t have time to analyze it when he hears the sound of something set in front of him.

 

Ouma turns to see a bottle of grape Panta placed in front of him, Amami’s calming voice, “It’ll be done in a few minutes.”

 

“Thanks, Mom,” Ouma says casually, gratefully taking the soda. He can practically feel Amami’s eyes roll when he walks away again.

 

Even if Ouma wasn’t outward about it, he was thankful for Amami. He thinks about it as he glances up to see his friend walking back to the half size kitchen. He and Amami had been friends for over ten years, some things just went without saying. There were plenty of bumps in the road as Ouma was never completely honest with him, as he was never completely honest with anyone, but Amami had stuck through it. Amami was still more than willing to come over and cook for him, listen to him whine about things that didn’t really matter. It was a friendship he almost felt he didn’t deserve.

 

He doesn’t realize he’s been staring blankly until Amami is sat across from him and there’s food in front of him. “Eat up,” Amami tells him, to which Ouma obliges. Amami’s cooking was always impressive, he figured it was the kind of skill level someone gained after always cooking for themselves. That was something Ouma wasn’t willing to go through every day. “So, what’s going on?”

 

Ouma stops halfway through going to take another bite, finally realizing Amami hadn’t cooked anything for himself. There was something strange going on. “What do you mean, Amami-chan~?” He forces his tone even brighter than it was before, a smiling tugged on to his face, “Nothing much beyond the normal duties of an evil supreme leader.”

 

Amami didn’t seem to take the answer, looking rather unimpressed, “Firstly, I barely see you going out with DICE anymore,” his tone was flat, before his voice turned to something more full of concern, “Secondly, I mean with Saihara.”

 

“Ah, that,” Ouma fakes a grin, putting down the chopsticks. He needed to get out of this situation. He could feel himself quickly getting backed into a corner, “My beloved,” why did his voice falter, he wants to know, “is doing great. It’s been nice having him all to myself lately.”

 

“And that’s why you’re home early? Because you have him _all to yourself_?” Amami presses further. “I want the truth, Ouma, something’s up.”

 

Ouma has the grin on for a moment longer before it cracks, expression sobering, “Look, if I even knew what it was, I would tell you, but I don’t. So I don’t want to think about it.” The ugly truth, it’s something that makes his throat tighten and his eyes revert from having to look at Amami.

 

Amami seems to pause for a long moment, as if that was processing, “What do you mean?” There’s even more concern in his words this time, Ouma can feel it putting his stomach in a knot. He should be thankful for the concern, but he doesn’t know how to be.

 

“I mean-” Ouma tries, rare for him to truly blank. He thinks over how to describe it, “I can barely look at Shuichi without feeling this tightening in my chest. I keep running away from things with him, keeping him at arm’s length away.” He bites his nail when he tries to make sense of the thoughts, his head felt like it was caught in a whirlwind, “I don’t know why I’m so afraid- Ugh, it sounds so lame like that. _Afraid_ , but I am, and I have been since we’ve really been... More than friends.”

 

Amami hummed when thinking, “And you don’t know why you feel like this. You didn’t cheat-”

 

“Shut up,” Ouma glares at that, “No, I wouldn’t.”

 

Amami raises his hands in defense, “I was just thinking aloud, but... It seems weird that you’d just want to run away from nothing.”

 

Ouma’s eyes downcast at that, “Yeah, I know.” He thinks deep down he knows, there were thoughts that arose, but he doesn’t know if he was ready to share them with Amami. He couldn’t even admit them to himself, it’s not like he could put them in words for another. Not yet. He looks back up to speak again, “I’d just like to be alone for right now, Amami-chan, but thanks for the food.” He suddenly realizes how tired he sounded.

 

Considerate, Amami sighs and gets up, “Alright, but I’ll be right next door if you need me.” He already going for the door.

 

“Bye,” Ouma calls out weakly.

 

“See you,” and just like that, Amami is gone.

 

Ouma takes a long glance at the food. His appetite was completely gone. An empty, churning feeling made his stomach twist. He doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand the sick feeling that ensues just from trying to speak with honesty about this all. There’s guilt in him when he picks up the bowl and throws the rest of the food away. The dish gets tossed into the sink along with all the other dishes Ouma never bothered to do.

 

Then there was that emptiness again. Ouma finds his bed again, not feeling the drive to do anything. He finds his phone in his hands again, turning it on just to see if he got a notification he didn’t hear. He had a few, but none that really mattered. When he swipes away all of the notifications out of frustration, he finds himself looking at Saihara’s face again. His brows knit.

 

That would have been the one thing that mattered, hearing from him.

 

Ouma closes his phone screen, setting it on his chest. Like that, hours seem to pass, and he eventually gets what he asked for. The phone chimes off by the time the sun is down, the only thing lighting Ouma’s room being the city lights. He clammers to open his phone, checking the new messages without unlocking it.

 

 _Message from Shu-chan_.

 

His heart stops for a beat. It’s nothing, he knows it is. There’s the mix of fear and excitement with every message that came from Saihara. He was, of course, thankful for just small words, but at the same time he knew he was bound to sink further. Everything that had to do with Saihara put himself further and further into that feeling. Despite having waited most of the day for it, despite his reaction to it being quick, he takes actually opening the message much slower.

 

_I hope you had a good day. 9:49PM_

_Goodnight 9:50PM_

 

Ouma’s eyes first skip over reading the message in the middle of the two. He had already known what it said by a glance. It’s only through reading it does it settle it.

 

_I love you 9:49PM_

 

There’s that shaking again. Ouma’s shoulders tremble until it travels all throughout his body, his hands shaking, his legs shaking. He finds his breath uneven. Those simple three words meant so much, he knew that. He heard them from Saihara commonly each night, the same way he’d get the messages of good morning and goodnight. Only recently did it start having this effect on Ouma.

 

Since they had been together, Ouma had never said _I love you_ . In which every time Saihara did, it made him feel nothing but guilt. It came with the territory of being more honest with Saihara, and that’s what terrified him. _Love_ . _I love you_. Those words were easier to say when they didn’t care so much weight, when it was back then and he was toying with Saihara. He didn’t know why it felt strange, why those words felt wrong. There were many things he felt for Saihara, wanting to protect him, and stay beside him no matter what, be everything he thought about. It shouldn’t have been so hard to say those words back, when he knows what he felt has to be love.

 

Despite never having said the words back since their relationship was more serious, Saihara had never seemed to mind. In some way, he seemed to understand. It feels like he had put it together before Ouma did, as if he knew the boy would say the words when he was ready to.

 

They’re the first thing he types out. _I love you_. They were always the first words he typed out for a response when Saihara had said it, but he always went back. He wanted to tell Saihara a thousand times over, those three simple words, but something always pulls him back. This feeling always pulls him back. He pauses for a long moment after deleting the three words, watching the typing reticle blink in and out.

 

_I know, my beloved. Goodnight. Sweet dreams~ 9:55PM_

 

He sends it before he can second guess himself. There shouldn’t be another reply. Ouma tosses his phone away from his bed. It was so pathetic, wasn’t it. He feels real tears begin to burn the edges of his eyes. At least alone in the cold dark apartment with a bed that felt much too big for himself, he can let himself cry. Even if it hurts, and he can’t help but hate himself for the weak display despite the fact no one’s watching, he can at least get the feelings out. The stirred, twisted feeling that lied between being sad and frustrated. It started with small sniffles, a tear or two escaping to create a thin line down the side of his face. It spirals into more violent shaking and choked sobs. It’s through one of his sobs that he puts together one piece of the feeling that’d been plaguing him the past few days.

 

He wanted to feel as though he was enough for Saihara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly didn't think this chapter was going to be that long. It's like... 4AM now and I lost track of time. Well, anyways, I hope this turned out alright! I'll come back to and edit it a little later on just in case I missed anything. I have some evil plans for the next chapter, and this is very much a build up to that.


	3. When There Is Nothing Left To Burn, You Must Set Yourself On Fire

Ouma doesn’t know when he fell asleep. He only knows he now finds himself in his bed, eyes puffy and sensitive. The sun pours into his room. The overflow of brightness makes his eyes hurt worse, and he brings his hands up to his face as though he could rub the pain away. It takes a good few minutes until he can fully open his eyes without feeling the piercing sting. Even then, his body feels like lead when he tries to pick himself up off his bed. He settles for turning in the moment, facing the open part of his room. 

 

He finds he’s still in normal clothes, suddenly a wave of exhaustion hitting him when he recalls last night. His head nestles a little further into his pillow, feeling a headache coming on around his temples. It was pathetic, he must have cried that much. That much when it should have felt like nothing, those useless feelings of guilt, and regret, and not being enough. They would have been nothing, all things he felt before and thought he’d become numb too.

 

Then there was Saihara. Suddenly, when the feelings resided around his love, they felt all too real again, he couldn’t ignore them. Everything hit him in waves, and it became gradually harder to hide it behind the usual mask.

 

His eyes wander across his cluttered room. Eventually they find where he had throw his phone to last night. On the far side of the sprawled rug sat the small piece of tech. Ouma keeps his eyes on it, not having to of heard it ring to know it went off earlier. He knows who it’s from, too. It was always him, always so early in the morning. He contemplates for a long time if getting up was worth it, if he really felt like facing another wave of feelings in that moment. 

 

When his brain eventually sets on the idea of getting up, his body betrays him. He feels as though he’s full of lead. His small arms wobble when beginning to lift himself. Despite nothing being there, the weight on his back felt immense, as if the world was holding him down. Everything wanted him to stay lying down. Let it go, not think about it, curl back up and shun out the world that was starting to feel too much.

 

After a few groans, he manages his way out of bed. His legs feel wobbly, suddenly the weight that felt like it was all over settling into his feet. He makes it a few steps before he concedes to the groggy and exhausting feeling, meeting the floor by his own will. On his knees, he leans his body forward to grab his phone. Phone in hand, he lays on to his back, sprawling against his fluffy rug. He holds the phone above his face. With one light press of the button, it lights up.

 

_ Message from Shu-chan _ .

 

Yeah, he knew that much. His fingers are on autopilot when swiping in his passcode. He opens the message without really thinking, instead finding several messages. He couldn’t let his mind be bogged down by the fear, the anticipation of feeling another needle dug into his heart, or a resounding pang ringing through his chest. The feelings seemed to be inevitable lately, the only choice to get rid of them was ejecting himself from  the situation all together.

 

He doesn’t want to think about that, instead reading the message he’d opened his phone to.

 

_ Good morning 8:31AM _

 

It seemed it was a while after that the next message arrived, Ouma noticed the time stamp.

 

_ Would you be okay with dinner tonight? There’s something I want to talk about. 10:46AM _

 

Ouma feels his throat dry when reading the last few words. There’s that thick, irrational anxiety that finds its way creeping into the back of his head. While Ouma hadn’t had a relationship before Saihara, he knew words like those often lead to inevitable ends. Maybe it was about time Saihara let him down easy. He shakes his head, trying desperately to dispel the thought, reminding himself over and over that it wouldn’t make sense. Saihara was always so sweet and patient with him, trying desperately to understand. Ouma thinks he would have been able to catch onto it all if it had been a lie.

 

Then again, maybe his head was too clouded with these feelings. That didn’t seem impossible. Being blinded by  _ that _ feeling so much so he hadn’t been paying attention to the small details. The idea that Saihara was only trying to be nice to him plagues his mind. He knows he wasn’t deserving of the love- still isn’t. It’d make more sense than he wants to admit, putting the pieces together. Saihara was something so much more than him. Of course Saihara could do better.

 

Nothing was definite, though. Ouma knows his mind is racing to the worst possible outcomes. Yet, he had no idea what Saihara wanted to talk about. He was jumping to conclusions on shaky grounds to begin with. He tells himself it’s also possible Saihara didn’t realize just how foreboding his words were. Saihara wasn’t always the best with words, Ouma knew that.

 

The whole while his fingers had been hovering at the screen, pecking on random keys before backspacing just to keep the screen on. For all the running he’d been doing, he knows how unsafe it is to run away, but maybe it was just as dangerous to run towards it. He notices how his fingers had began to shake since reading. When he pauses them from their movement, he can really see it, see the way it resonates down to his arms and feels it into his shoulders. That sick feeling was there again, even if he already knows the right answer he has to give back. The only answer he can give back.

 

He types slowly.

 

_ Yeah sure. What time and where? :) 2:34PM _

 

He sends it hesitantly, wondering a few times over if he should change the wording or dress it up at all. He settles on the simple response. Not to mention noticing just how late he was getting up again, making note of the small time stamp.

 

The phone meets his chest when he sets it down and stares at the ceiling. He’d been waking up so late all the time lately, he has to wonder if it’s a side effect of the general fatigue. It feels like forever while he’s lying there waiting for a response. He didn’t have anything else to do, didn’t want to do anything else. While lying there, the sound of that windchime fills his ears as it had the other day.

 

That relaxing hymn is broken by the quiet buzzing sound, a brief vibration going off against Ouma’s chest. His fingers had stayed curled around his phone, only having to bring his hand up and swipe in the code to find the incoming thread of new messages. The first one is the name of restaurant. He’d been there plenty of times with Saihara, the place only being a twenty minute walk down the street given how close to the city he lived. It goes on from there to one other message he had received while reading the first.

 

_ Do you think you could be there in an hour? 2:45PM _

 

It was little time to really emotionally prepare himself, let alone get ready. Yet, Ouma figures it’s best to comply, trying to sound a little more okay with it than what his plaguing thoughts were making him feel.

 

_ Sure~ I’ll see you there, my beloved. (*^ω^*) 2:46PM _

 

The next response is far faster.

 

_ Perfect. :) 2:46PM _

 

There was something odd about Saihara using emoticons. It really wasn’t something special, plenty of teenagers used them. It felt strange with Saihara’s usual personality, and Ouma feels a twitch of his lips upward at the little smile. The tinge of a smile turns into a pain in his chest. Not that he was deserving of the smile, he knows that. 

 

He’s on his feet the moment later, dismissing his phone, along with the message, into the confines of his pocket. It wasn’t going to stay there. He’s already digging around his room for clothes that looked halfway decent from the normal, relaxed or more worn things he often found himself comfortable in. He knows it wasn’t that much of a special occasion, at least it shouldn’t have been, but it was Saihara. Saihara was more than worth cleaning up for especially if the two of them were going to be seen together during dinner.

 

He doesn’t have time for a shower, but manages to find the nicest looking clean clothes from the pile where all his clothes had been haphazardly thrown. He sets his phone aside when undressing in the middle of his apartment, tugging on the new clothes and buttoning the undershirt. It felt way too formal for him, even if it was something simple. He makes a groan of displeasure when buttoning the shirt up to his collarbone, purposely leaving two unbuttoned so he didn’t feel like he was suffocating anymore than his feelings already induced on him. He doesn’t lose the checkered scarf, however, the signature accessory being tied to sit around his neck.

 

It’s only once he’s dressed does he saunter over to the bathroom. There, he checks his hair. It was always a mess, but he does his best to swat a few loose strands into a more fitting place. He doesn’t spend long on his hair, marching out the door after he ran his fingers through it all a few times. From the bathroom, he’s already going to leave the apartment.

 

He knows he has time, but he also knows the longer he sat in the apartment the more he’d want to stay.

 

This was terrifying. That was to say the least. There was uncertainty in every step. He knows this dinner could go anywhere, or at least that’s the anxiety his brain manages to push onto him. His strides are long in the direction of the restaurant, the welcoming summer air accompanying him. There was no race to get there, certainly, and it felt as though he sat between that limbo again, standing on the fine line of running away and running towards the problem. If he thought too hard, he knew he’d stop. He lets his feet move on his own.

 

He stops briefly when he’s deeper into the city. Not so much stop as he slows down, eyes lingering on a passing store. It was a flower shop, with a beautiful array of bouquets shown off in the front window. Inside the store he sees the lingerings of people buying flowers. He wonders briefly if he should stop, buy some flowers for Saihara. It would be unexpected, he knows that, and it’s not even really necessary, but he thinks of how the small gesture can express so much love for another.

 

_ Love _ . His mind pauses on that word, tearing his gaze away from the flower shop when he kept walking. He didn’t know what was so impossible about that word, didn’t completely understand the implications or when the proper time to say it was. Perhaps he over thought it. In fact, he knows he has. The words shouldn’t carry as much weight as they do, but with Saihara, he wanted them to carry that weight. Or maybe he didn’t want to carry that weight, not personally, anyways. There was something awfully strange about it, and he had to wonder just how much those words meant to Saihara when they were whispered to Ouma. He had to wonder if he could ever return just how much it meant to Saihara. 

 

In the beginning, it was all easier. To joke and play with those words, Ouma was certainly fond of Saihara, but he never knew about the true meaning of the words when he sing-songed them to Saihara back before their relationship. He was certain he liked Saihara more than Saihara had liked him at that time, when things felt simple, when things made sense. There was something that switched off in him, he thinks, back when he first heard those words spoken to him, “I love you,” Saihara had said. Ouma remembers vividly that his voice was sincere, heavy, but sweet.

 

It was truly terrifying. The joy he felt was overwhelming, he remembers that vividly too, but he couldn’t help suddenly feeling something so off. That must have been when these feelings had started, when the fatigue and pain started off in blotches and tinges. Now they were a weight that enveloped his body, only wishing to bring him down to earth. He knows he hadn’t been able to say  _ I love you _ since he had heard it from Saihara. He had to wonder what was wrong with him.

 

While he had been lost in his own head, he finds himself at the door of the restaurant. It was a small, quiet place despite the bustle of the city. He thinks that’s part of why Saihara liked it so much, the peaceful atmosphere of it.

 

When he gets inside, he glances at the man behind the podium already greeting him, an ask of how many. Yet Ouma looks past him, eyes catching the familiar head of black hair, a small wave towards him to boot. He dismisses the worker before wandering over to where he saw Saihara sat. With each step, he got slower. A smile it projected upwards to himself when he’s standing behind the second seat at the table. The smile feels like it should be on anything but him, he doesn’t quite know why.

 

“Hey, Kokichi,” there’s always something so welcoming in Saihara’s voice, even when his voice can be small, slightly unsure of himself.

 

Ouma changes without really thinking about it. Suddenly all the thoughts he had on his way here didn’t matter. He’s smiling no matter how wrong it feels. He takes a seat, shoulders perked up and leaning towards Saihara when he greets, “Hey, Shu-chan~! There was something you wanted to talk about?” However, when talking to Saihara, he’s really only looking at the empty space over his shoulder. He doesn’t know how to look at Saihara when he’s looking back. Not now, not with the guilt rising to his chest just from the sound of his voice.

 

“A- ah, that,” Saihara seems to fumble, and Ouma catches the glimpse of blush on Saihara’s cheeks. He doesn’t understand why. “We don’t have to talk about that right now. How was your day yesterday?”

 

Ouma has to biteback the frown he felt wanting to creep onto his lips. That anxious feeling of anticipation returned, something he didn’t know what to do with. Pressing for answers would only feel wrong, but his mind was left to wander without any answers. Regardless, the smile is still there, his bright tone that masked everything, “Ah, it was super great!” What an awful lie, “Nishishi, me and DICE had far too much fun graffiting the alleys.” He figures the scrawl of paint was still there, he could lie about when it happened. His expression changes, “Amami forced me to hang out with him after that. It can get so annoying when it feels like he can’t live without me!” He blended the lines between his lies and his truths, feeling a guilty pang in his heart. The next part, however, was the full truth, “I missed you, though~” at least, it’s as much as a truth as he believes he could find himself admitting. There was more to that, it felt, but the words felt hidden behind that mask, to even him.

 

Saihara seems to smile a bit, reassuring back, “I missed you too.” Ouma figures he must have done good to earn that expression, one he only caught a glance of, fearing that if he looked for too long Saihara’s existence would reel him into reality. A reality where it became impossible to lie, one he wouldn’t know how to deal with. Saihara tended to do that to him now without even trying. Just being in Saihara’s presence made it hard to lie, the feelings that came with each lie added to the weight on Ouma’s shoulder. It became too much, but he has to wonder just how bad it could be if he spilled all the truths. He didn’t know how to communicate these feelings, they could end up messy and muddled. They could hurt Saihara. That was the most important part. “That actually... Does bring me to what I wanted to talk about.”

 

Ouma perks up a bit. The world feels like it’s standing still, and Saihara hasn’t even really said anything, “What is it, Shu-chan?” There’s a point where the bubbly voice fades, Ouma knows he lets out a tinge of that exhaustion.

 

“I-” Saihara seemed to take a deep breath in, and Ouma had to wonder if he was just as anxious as him. It was impossible to tell over what. Maybe he really was here to let Ouma down softly, but the coming words shattered that idea, “I really love you, Kokichi...” He trails off again.

 

Why did those words hurt? Ouma wonders when his mind starts to blank. It was only going to get worse, wasn’t it.

 

It seemed to take a lot of Saihara’s will to really muster up what he was about to say, “It feels really lonely, waking up to a cold and empty bed. It feels worse coming home with that same empty feeling that changes so much when you’re there, and eating dinner alone- it’s, well, lonely.” He seems to catch himself rambling, and it felt like something so rare for Saihara, “What I’m trying to get at here it... I’d like you to move in. I figured it’s been long enough, and I really can’t help but remember how in love with you I am whenever it’s that lonely, reminding me how close I want you to be. I, uh-” Saihara’s face is fully flushed now, all while Ouma had just been staring. He couldn’t look anywhere else. Saihara had fully encaptured him with those words.

 

But they all hurt.

 

The world felt off kilter, like everything was spinning. Everything that was right was suddenly wrong, this shouldn’t have been how he was feeling. He didn’t get it, he didn’t understand any of it. “You’re kidding right?” The words slip out before his head really processes them. There was a nervous laugh with it, a crooked smile quickly breaking down. He was gone, something switching off inside of him when he had said the words. Suddenly, while it feels like everything’s falling apart for reasons he didn’t understand, the feelings were starting to piece together. He felt everything begin to click together in his mind, explain the hollow feeling in his chest for once. Maybe that had the answers to all of this.

 

Saihara makes a noise of surprise, but Ouma only continues. He doesn’t realize he’s raised his voice, “All this time I’ve been contemplating whether or not I-” that word, “you, I didn’t know what I was feeling. You knew that, didn’t you? When I could never say it. It’s been eating me alive, I’ve been so confused when I don’t know how to answer your affections like this. It’s-” He’s spilling too much, he hadn’t realized how far he’d gone until he caught himself. He didn’t realize he had stood up from his chair, hands on the table when he’s looking at Saihara. So is everyone else, and he knows how awful he is for doing this, but doesn’t know why he can’t stop, “I don’t know why you’d ask something like that, ask that of me, I-” takes a breath in, “I’d be consumed by this feeling.”

 

He turns before he thinks, already going to leave the restaurant he had made a scene at. It’s a second after that he hears himself being followed after, a second after stunned silence and unspoken fear.

 

It’s when he’s on the sidewalk does he feel his wrist grabbed, “Kokichi, are you okay, I-”

 

He feels himself burst. Ouma feels everything explode, like the emotions finally pushed their way out of his empty chest with a force he was completely unaware of, “Why can’t you just hate me?” He’s finally yelling, people’s eyes are catching them. His head is ducked away. He can’t look at Saihara’s pained expression, “I’ve been lying to you again, about a lot of things, because I don’t know how to handle this. I don’t know how to handle you. Especially when this feels so doomed. You’re so much, you’re really making a difference in this world. You’re kind, and beautiful, but I can’t give you anything. Anything but this stupid presence that only weighs you down and you don’t even see it because of my filthy lies. I don’t know how you can even look at me, you deserve someone who can help you, who can stand shoulder to shoulder with you.”

 

Suddenly it all made sense.

 

He did love Saihara. Yes, that was the word for it.

 

And it’s because of that love that he knows Saihara should be anywhere but around him. The thought makes him quiver, but he knows this is the truth. The truth he had been looking for, the truth he has to convey, “I’m so sorry,” he breathes out, he doesn’t remember the last time he apologized, “All this guilt and pain because I knew I couldn’t love you properly, I can never give you what you need. It makes sense now, it really does.”

 

Saihara looked shaken, more than that. There are tears brimming at his eyes, and they make Ouma’s head spin, the same way it felt the word was spinning. He’s trying to reason with him, even in such a state, “Kokichi,” his name first, “It’s okay, because you’re what I want, and I’m sorry for being so blind to how you’ve been feeling, but I don’t think you get it. Love is irrational, and I think you have it more figured out than you think you do. This can work, because we can make it work, I want to make it work. You’re so much more than you think you are.”

 

It all hurt, every word. Ouma realizes now it’s simply him hurting himself with those words. He used them lives knives on himself, to plunge himself further into this guilt, “You don’t get it,” Ouma didn’t mean to snap, but maybe it was for the best, “You need to move on.” There were a thousand words behind that one sentence. Words he didn’t know how to say. He’s beginning to slip from the truths, feeling his entire body shaking. His nails must have dug far enough into his palms he feels blood, teeth grit when he forces himself not to cry. He knows they’d be real tears, “We can’t make this work, because I don’t want it to work.”

 

_ All I want to work this out. _

 

“You deserve someone better, and I can’t be it. I could never be it.”

 

_ I’m so weak. I’m nothing compared to you. _

 

“This was doomed from the start.”

 

_ I’m the one destroying it, aren’t I? _

 

“I should have stopped pulling your rope a long time ago.”

 

_ I didn’t understand. I don’t understand. I just want to be loved. I just want to love. _

 

“I don’t think I ever loved you,”  _ I loved you more than I had anyone _ , “even then, I... I can’t love you.” 

 

The world around them doesn’t exist. Ouma doesn’t know why he’s still there, forcing himself to listen to the sniffles and sobs coming from Saihara when he’s trying to focus enough on a response. “You...” He chokes up, he sounds so small and weak. Yet, there was no more feeling in Ouma’s chest. It was all empty, but he’s sure it would have made his heart broken.

 

But it’s already broken. He broke it himself the moment he realized he really did love Saihara.

 

“Is this... over then?” Saihara manages out, sounding so unsure. 

 

Ouma nods stiffly, “Yeah.” The word is croaked out. Ouma feels like the world’s spinning when the cries of the other get worse. He doesn’t think he ever heard the other cry like this, nor does he think he ever wanted him. It fills his bones with a new weight, one different from what he had been feeling this entire time. In all reality, he doesn’t know what to do. He knows he’s made a scene, he knows he’s hurt Saihara in more ways than he can imagine. 

 

But all he can do is stand there. He barely has anything to say for himself. He can’t even look at Saihara, violet eyes trained on a blurry distance when the world felt like it was all blending together. In that moment it was only him and Saihara, nothing else mattered, and he hated that. 

 

He hated what he had just done, hated himself, and part of him knows this could only leave another wave of feelings to meet him him later. This could bring about a new current bound on sweeping him away, reeling him back into a drowning feeling. Maybe it would be a different drowning feeling, the same way his chest felt heavy to empty to once again filled with cement.

 

There was nothing left to say, was there?

 

Realistically, he knows this is for the best. No, it was definitely for the best.

 

He turns his head when he begins to walk away. His strides are slow in the beginning, as if begging for Saihara to chase after him again.

 

Yet, nothing stopped him this time. There was no call of his name or hand to grip his wrist. He was free to run, this is what he was good at, anyways. Running. His slow pace eventually grew faster until he found himself breaking out into a full sprint back towards his home. He doesn’t quite know what sets the fire in his lungs, but he lets it carry him.

 

New feelings began to swell under his eyes, sunk deep into his bones. No matter how fast he ran, those were bound to catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, I'm sorry about a bit of a later update this time! I've been moving, and it made it super hard to really sit down and work on writing. Not to mention going over myself thrice over when thinking about how I wanted this chapter to go considering how strong I wanted it to be. There is much more to go from here, at that. Hopefully next chapter update doesn't take as long!! I'm also thinking I'm going to do some art surrounding this fic so look forward to that if you follow me on Twitter or Tumblr. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Ha ha ha, I'm ready to suffer writing this. Also, my Twitter is @KarasuAke if you want to come cry about these two with me. :)


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